His Brother's Wife pt1

The first time I saw her again, she was stepping out of the car in heels too high for gravel.

Elena Salvador—the star of every goddamn fantasy I’d ever had.

Her sundress clung to her thighs like it missed her hips. Her sunglasses hid half her face, but not the pout of her lips or the sway in her walk. That hadn’t changed. That would never change.

I leaned on the porch rail, drinking her in like the first glass of something forbidden.

“My sister-in-law,” I muttered to myself, smirking. “Married to my brother for nine years.”

And every day of those nine years, I’ve wanted to fuck her.

She didn’t see me at first. Her eyes were on the lake, the trees, the house she hadn’t visited in years. The summer home we grew up in. The one filled with memories—some warm, most buried.

Then her eyes landed on me.

She hesitated. Just for a second. A flicker of something in her chest.

Recognition? Surprise? Heat?

Then: “Stefan?”

God, that voice.

“Hey, Lena.” My voice came out smoother than I felt. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

She walked up the steps with careful grace, and for a moment, I let myself stare. Really stare. She’d filled out in all the best ways. Hips fuller. Thighs toned. Breasts rising beneath the thin fabric of that dress like temptation wrapped in innocence.

She hugged me. Quick, polite.

I didn’t hug back.

I couldn’t.

My hands would stay on her too long.

She pulled away and adjusted her sunglasses. “Matthew said you’d be here.”

I shrugged. “He’s not?”

“Driving in tomorrow. Work ran late. Of course.”

Of course.

The man worked like he was married to his job.

And she looked like a woman who hadn’t been touched in months.

“Well,” I said, stepping aside. “Welcome home.”

She walked in, and I watched her like a man watches a slow fire spread.

---

She unpacked quietly in the master bedroom—the one she used to share with Matthew.

I passed the doorway once, twice, three times, just to hear her soft humming as she folded her clothes.

That night, I sat on the dock with a beer, toes grazing the water’s edge. The moon hung heavy, the air thick with heat and pine. She came out in a silk robe, short, pale blue, cinched around her waist like it was holding back something dangerous.

She sat beside me, her legs bare, feet dipped in the water.

“You still come out here at night,” she said softly.

I nodded. “Some habits are worth keeping.”

We sat in silence. The kind that presses on your skin and makes you aware of everything: the smell of her perfume, the curve of her thigh, the way her robe slid slightly when she breathed.

“You’ve changed,” she said after a while.

“So have you.”

She looked at me, eyes lingering longer than they should’ve. “You were just a kid the last time I saw you.”

“And now?”

She paused.

Now was dangerous.

Now was a twenty-one-year-old man staring at her like she was the answer to every bad decision he’d ever wanted to make.

She looked away. “Now you drink beer and brood at the lake.”

I smirked. “Better than pretending I don’t notice how good you look.”

That made her laugh. Soft, but breathy.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she murmured.

I leaned in, just a little. Just enough. “Why not?”

She glanced at me, then at the dark water ahead. “Because you don’t mean them.”

“I do.”

She didn’t answer that. Just stood, letting the robe part slightly as she turned. A glimpse of thigh. A whisper of lace.

“Goodnight, Stefan.”

She walked back inside.

I stared at the door long after it closed, my cock already hard beneath my shorts.

---

The next morning, I found her in the kitchen. She was barefoot, wearing one of Matthew’s old T-shirts, and for a second, it felt like a punch to the chest.

But it was too big on her, too loose. It hung off her shoulder, exposing the delicate line of her collarbone, and I could see the lace of her bra peeking through when she leaned forward to grab a mug.

“You always wake up this early?” she asked, smiling.

“I never went to sleep.”

“Why not?”

Because I was hard all night thinking about you.

“Too hot.”

She made coffee, humming softly again, and I watched the way her fingers moved—elegant, precise, sensual without meaning to be. Elena didn’t have to try. She never had to try.

I moved behind her. Close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her.

She stiffened, but she didn’t step away.

“You used to wear perfume,” I said quietly, just over her shoulder. “Something sweet. Jasmine.”

“I still wear it.”

“I know.”

She turned around, eyes wary. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

I tilted my head. “No games, Elena. Just truth.”

Her breath hitched slightly.

I took a step closer. “He doesn’t see you. Not like I do.”

“That’s not your place to say.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

She stepped past me, pouring the coffee with trembling fingers.

When she handed me the mug, our fingers touched.

She didn’t pull away.

Neither did I.

---

That afternoon, she swam.

And I watched her.

She dove into the lake in a red bikini that looked like sin wrapped in a woman’s body. I sat on the porch with sunglasses, pretending to read, but my eyes were on her the whole time. Every stroke. Every rise from the water.

She caught me watching.

She didn’t stop.

Later, as she lay out on the dock, sun on her skin, eyes closed—I walked over.

“You’re making it hard to be a good brother-in-law.”

She opened one eye. “Then don’t look.”

“Too late.”

I dropped my towel beside her, sat down cross-legged, and reached out. Ran my fingers along the edge of her thigh.

She tensed.

“Stefan,” she warned.

“I just want to touch you.”

“Don’t.”

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

My fingers slid higher.

“Elena,” I murmured. “Tell me to stop.”

She said nothing.

I leaned closer, lips brushing her ear. “Tell me to stop.”

Still, silence.

I kissed the side of her neck. Just once.

She gasped.

Then she stood. Sudden. Shaken.

And walked into the house.

---

That night, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I knocked on her bedroom door at 1 a.m.

She opened it wearing nothing but a slip.

“Stefan,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Don’t.”

But her eyes begged me to.

I stepped in. Closed the door. Locked it.

She backed away, but I caught her wrist. Pulled her flush against me.

“You’ve wanted this,” I said. “You’ve always wanted this.”

Her lips parted. Her breath was warm on my mouth. “He’ll kill us.”

“He doesn’t even fuck you.”

She gasped.

I kissed her. Hard. Bruising. Like I’d been waiting nine years.

She kissed me back.